


Demons and Other Highly Subjective Topics

by klairevoyance



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Cafe AU, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Magic, i'm sure nobody is surpised, mammon tries to act tough but is actually very baby, slow burn babyyy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24795823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klairevoyance/pseuds/klairevoyance
Summary: Okay, so maybe opening a cafè in a college town right before summer recess wasn't the most calculated business decision you'd ever made. But was it really going to take a pact with a demon to keep you from going bankrupt?
Relationships: Main Character/Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

Luke is an ugly crier.

His blue eyes puff, his cheeks grow flushed and rosy. Heavy tears stream from his face, entirely unaided by the sodden tissue you handed him just moments ago.

“P-please, _hic._ I n-need this, _hic,_ job,” he sobs. You shuffle once more through the stack of revenue sheets on your tiny desk. Your tiny office, which also doubled as Café Ambrosia's utility closet, was far too small to handle so much emotion. 

_As long as there's enough room for a computer, I'll be fine. I’m a hands-on kind of person,_ you remember saying all too confidently to the leasing agent. _Besides, I’m just opening a coffee shop. I don’t imagine I’ll be doing_ _much desk work._

You sigh at your own naïvety. Café Ambrosia had done okay since it’s opening last winter, servicing mostly sleep-deprived students from the nearby university. However, you hadn’t been prepared for the dip in traffic during summer recess. As the days grew longer, the line at your counter grew shorter, which ultimately prompted you to call Luke into your office.

“I’m really sorry,” you turn your thoughts back to him. “But there’s no way I can pay you _and_ Solomon _and_ have enough left over to keep the store stocked.”

Luke wipes at his leaking nose with another hiccup. You know you should say something comforting, but the right words are hard to find.

“There’s a chance I’ll be able to rehire you come August, when the students come back,” is all you can come up with. You keep your voice as positive as possible, but your words still seem to fall flat. 

“W-what if you cut my hours, instead?” Luke clasps his hands. “And my, _hic,_ pay? What if I work for free?”

“I’m not gonna make you work for free, Luke. That’s ridiculous. You have to eat, too.” 

“I don’t need the money,” his voice cracks. “I’ll figure something out. Please, I’ll d-do anything to make this work.”

Again, a sigh escapes your lips. You glance at your spreadsheet, only to be reminded that there is absolutely, positively _no way_ you can make this work.

Luke watches you with watery eyes, his round face full of innocence. You recall his first interview, when he had to show you his ID just to prove that he was old enough to be employed. Solomon had found the situation hilarious.

 _You kinda have_ _to hire him now,_ he had laughed, flashing you one of his trademark Solomon smiles. _Those_ were the moments you found yourself missing most in recent days— the busy mornings, the bustling lines, the sharp quips and funny retorts that flew around the café as the three of you hopped from the milk frother to the espresso machine…

“Okay,” you concede defeat. “But I’m only cutting your hours, not your pay. I’ll just need to make sure Solomon can handle a few solo shifts—”

“Sounds good to me!” Comes Solomon’s voice from somewhere in the kitchen. Through his tears, Luke’s face shines.

“I _promise_ you won’t regret this,” he stands so quickly that the folding chair nearly teeters to the ground. “I’ll advertise on my time off. We can do flyers, and emails— _ooh,_ maybe I can talk some of the local businesses into partnerships!”

You muster up a smile as he slips through your office door, still chattering excitedly. It’s only when his voice fades that you let your head fall onto your desk with a dull _clunk._

> _Monthly Net Revenue - May 20XX:_ _-1,140.03_

The number at the bottom of your spreadsheet glares at you angrily. You glare back, as if doing so could make the tiny negative sign disappear.

“(Y/N)?”

Your staring match ends when a soft voice whispers your name through the cracked door. You snap back up just as Solomon slips into your office, concern creasing his brow.

“Is Luke still here?” You mouth.

Solomon shakes his head. “Just left. I went ahead and closed up behind him. Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

You glance at the clock on your ancient desktop computer. 7:30PM— a whole 30 minutes before closing time. Solomon follows your gaze.

“Sorry, but I, uh, haven’t had a customer in about an hour,” he bites his lip. “Figured I’d throw in the towel and clock out. Save you some money.”

“You don’t have to— _Solomon._ That’s totally unfair to you,” the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I’m paying you until—”

“No,” Solomon interjects. “I heard what you told Luke. I can't do much to help, but I _can_ do this.”

His words are stern, but not unkind. That same, unwavering tone was actually one of the reasons you initially hired him. Interactions with difficult patrons and stingy suppliers made your skin crawl, but they didn’t seem to bother Solomon in the slightest. He could shut any complaint down in a heartbeat, and he could do so with a genuine smile.

Not to mention, he could make a _damn_ good cup of coffee. He had more loyal regulars than you and Luke combined, and his knack for pairing new drinks with customers had already earned him a budding reputation.

“I’ll find a way to pay you,” you mutter, partly to him and partly to yourself. “You deserve at least that much from me. _Both_ of you.”

“And _you_ deserve all the help we can give you,” Solomon offers you a hand, and you take it. “We’ll get through this together.”

A tear threatens to emerge from the corner of your eye, but you blink it away. Tears were a waste of time and resources— two things you were running short on as of late. Solomon gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before leaning over you to tap the power button on your computer.

“C’mon,” he says, nudging the door open. “We both open tomorrow.”

* * *

You and Solomon walk together until you arrive at the intersection of 5th and Cherry, where he peels off in the direction of the university.

“My summer classes started yesterday, so I’m gonna do some reading in the library,” he mentions offhandedly. “Don’t give me that look, I’ll still be at work bright and early tomorrow.”

The rest of your walk home is uneventful, punctuated only by the occasional car peddling down the narrow street. You count your steps, purposefully blocking thoughts of the café from your mind.

_Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty._

Forty. As in negative one-thousand, one-hundred and forty dollars. And three cents.

_Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two._

Two. As in two college students depending on you for income. You remember your own college days vividly— the grueling shifts at the local coffee chain, the papers turned in minutes before midnight. Looking back, you weren't sure how you managed to survive so long on microwavable meals and the occasional expired pastry swiped from your job.

Graduating college and starting your own café was _supposed_ to put a stop to that sort of behavior. Fate seemed to have other ideas, however, for when you finally find yourself back in your apartment, the only thing waiting for you in your pantry are packaged noodles. You begrudgingly shove them in the microwave while you boot up your laptop, preparing yourself for a long night of research.

The cursor blinks on the screen as you think of where to start. _Quick ways to make money_ yields a variety of different things— employment websites, pyramid schemes. Not exactly what you were hoping for.

 _Quick ways to make money without going into debt._ Searching… No, nothing there either.

 _How to hijack the lottery._ Searching… _oh._ That's probably not legal.

 _Tips on_ _becoming a sugar-baby._ Searching… er, on second thought, maybe not.

You lean back in your creaky kitchen chair, frustrated. If only you had a rich, coffee-loving family member who would loan you some money… 

Wait. Inspiration spurns your fingers, and you enter another inquiry into the search engine.

 _Small business investors near me._ Searching… _ah-ha!_

The very first link leads you to the ritzy and professional website of _Avarice & Co. _Their mission statement describe them as a group of wealthy investors interested in assisting small, struggling businesses. You scribble down the number of the 24-hour information hotline, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

_BZZT. BZZT._

Your phone vibrates on the table, startling you.

> _**Solomon (23:05):** finished up at the library and made it home. see you tomorrow at 7. _
> 
> _**Solomon (23:06):** and try to get some sleep, k? it’s all gonna work out. _

You tap a quick response, your thoughts still buzzing frantically in your head. Solomon was right, of course— your 5:30AM alarm would sound _extra_ terrible if you didn’t sleep soon.

You rinse your dishes and rush through your nighttime paces. In a matter of minutes, you’re nestled into your sheets with Avarice & Co.’s phone number flashing on your phone's screen, just waiting for you to press _call._ You take a deep breath.

_Brrt, brrt, brrt._

_Brrt, brrt, brrt._

_Brrt, brrt, brrt._

Maybe it wasn’t a 24-hour line after all.

 _Or maybe,_ you think to yourself, your heart sinking. _Maybe I’m an idiot for thinking a random phone number from the internet could solve my problems._

You toss your phone onto your bedside table before burrowing your face into your pillow. It all seemed so _stupid_ when you slowed down to think about it. After all, what sort of investment office would have a _24-hour information hotline?_ Why didn't that strike you as odd just a few minutes before?

You take a few deep breaths, forcing your brain to return back to square one. Perhaps you could find the time to get a second job somewhere, and then use _that_ money to pay Luke. That wouldn't be so bad, right?

_BZZT. BZZT._

For the second time that night, your phone startles you. You retrieve it from the table to see an incoming call from an unknown, blocked number. Your heart leaps into your throat as you press _answer._

“Hello?” You say in your clearest, most professional tone. The voice that speaks back to you is nothing like what you expected.

“Sorry I missed ya,” it’s male, low and gravelly. “Wasn't expecting a call in the middle of the night. Who’s this?”

You mouth wordlessly into the receiver, unable to form a sentence. 

“You there?” Repeats the voice. “Wait, is this Brunhilda from Hell's Kitchen? I _told_ you that I'll pay my tab when I—”

“It’s (Y/N)!” You explode over the man's rambling. “My name is (Y/N). I’m calling about the, um, investing group? For small businesses?”

With every passing word, your confidence crumbles. The line goes quiet, and you wait for the man to start laughing.

“Okay, yeah,” to your surprise, he doesn't laugh. Instead, his voice melts into something smooth and buttery. “The investing group. You lookin’ for money?”

“Yeah. I, um, my café… isn’t doing too well. Business was great while the university next door was in session, but I didn't exactly plan for the summers to be so slow. I just need a loan to float us until the students come back…”

You stop yourself, fearful that you had already said too much. The man hums in your ear.

“Ah, I see. Sounds like a tricky situation,” he muses. “But I think I might be able to help.”

“Really?” You try (and fail) to keep your tone level. “Sorry, I just… _really?”_

“Yeah, of course. I'm a generous guy,” you can practically hear his smile. “Tell you what, let’s meet up in person. Then we can discuss the, ah, _transaction.”_

That… doesn’t sit right with you, for some reason. The hope you felt just moments before dissipates like smoke.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that,” you tuck your blankets tighter around your shoulders. “Could we just… FaceTime, instead?”

“What do you take me for, a con man? That’s terrible business practice,” the man laughs. “But here, let’s meet in the middle. How about _I_ come to _your_ cafè? That way you’re in a familiar space, and I can take a look at my investment. It’s a win-win.”

Something begins to stir deep in your gut. An overwhelming instinct, a primal sense of self-preservation. It begs you to hang up, to delete the number from your phone and purge this idea from your mind.

But something stronger rises up to quell it. A sense of duty— to Luke, to Solomon, to the dream you’d already worked so hard for.

“Y’there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you snap away from your thoughts. “I, um, okay. I’ll meet you.”

You read off Cafè Ambrosia’s address, ignoring the heavy sense of dread in your stomach.

“Excellent,” he chimes. “See you tomorrow, then. And hey, there’s no need to be nervous. This isn’t some weird internet sex thing. Trust me, yeah?”

* * *

“Oh, it’s _definitely_ a weird internet sex thing,” as usual, Mo refuses to hold a single punch. He lounges in his usual spot against the counter, sipping the mostly-sugar concoction Solomon whipped up for him.

“He said it wasn’t over the phone,” you look away, desperate to hide the blush in your cheeks. Mo chuckles. 

“Well of _course_ he wouldn’t tell you right off the bat,” he continues, his pink lips pursed around his straw. “All I’m saying is don’t be surprised when your _millionaire investor_ ends up being just another internet weirdo.”

You slot the last of the fresh brownies into the display case and slide the glass closed, refusing to make eye contact with Mo. Solomon, ever watchful, abandons the register and shoos him away.

“Don’t you have someone else to torment, Asmodeus?” He asks with a good natured wink. Mo claps with delight.

“I _love_ it when you call me that,” he purrs. “Say, when do you get off?”

Solomon rolls his eyes, but smiles. Mo was one of his first regulars, and the two of them loved to rib each other.

“Really, though,” Mo turns back to you. “When is this guy supposed to show up? I don’t mind sticking around for a while. Y'know, just in case he tries something funny.”

“What are _you_ gonna do?” Solomon pipes. “Dump your latte on him?”

Mo holds a hand over his chest, feigning outrage.

“Solomon, you know me better than that. I would _never_ waste good coffee,” he takes a sip, and the nearly-empty cup rattles. "Anyways, places to be, people to see. Same time tomorrow, Sol?"

You take the opportunity to retreat from the conversation, slipping quietly into your office and pulling the door nearly shut. A few missed text messages flash from your cellphone.

> _**Unknown (09:53):** be there soon _
> 
> _**Unknown (09:53):** look for me _
> 
> _**You (10:07):** ok. how will i know it’s you? _

The jingle of the doorbell distracts you from the cryptic messages. You peer through your cracked door and see Solomon approach the register, obscuring the customer side of the counter. Suddenly, the lights in the café begin to flicker, and the hair on your arms prickles, as if you had touched a live wire.

“Get out,” Solomon snarls, his voice turning your blood to ice. Something was wrong. Your eyes flicker back to your cellphone, but the screen was dark and unresponsive.

“Woah, woah,” you look up again when another voice speaks. It's the faintest bit familiar. “That’s no way to greet a paying custo—”

“I know what you are,” Solomon cuts the voice off, and again the lights flicker. “And you aren’t welcome here. _Leave.”_

There’s a pause, punctuated only by the sound of shuffled footsteps. Your heart pounds in your ears as you suck in breath after shallow breath. Surely Solomon wouldn’t start a fight in the middle of the café…?

“O—kay,” the strange voice says. “Hate to break it to ya, but I’ve actually been invited here. By (Y/N). Since you know what I am, you know that means you can’t keep me away.”

Solomon's head swivels around, and his eyes meet yours before you can scramble away. He’s outside your office in an instant, his expression frantic.

“We need to talk,” he pushes the door open and slips inside, latching it shut behind him. “Sit.”

You chair suddenly moves behind you, knocking into your legs and causing you to fall back into it.

“Sol, you're scaring me,” your voice shakes. “What’s going on? Who’s at the register? Should I call the police?”

“The investor you met over the internet,” Solomon says through his teeth. “Did he ever tell you his name?”

“I never thought to ask,” you admit, heat rising to your cheeks.

Solomon reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He suddenly looks… older. Tired. You often forgot that he was actually several months your senior, working at your café just to pay his way through graduate school. 

“That’s…” his voice is barely above a whisper. “That's a demon out there. A powerful one.”

A _demon?_ Immediately, your mouth fills with questions. Before you can ask any of them, though, Solomon holds up a finger and speaks again.

“Remember my first day here? Remember what you said to me?”

“I told you… that you were good at making coffee?” 

“Do you remember _exactly_ what you said?”

“Um,” your mind whirls. “I said… you were _too_ good. Like it was magic.”

“Exactly,” Solomon watches your face carefully, expectantly, as he twists his raised hand.

_Kckt._

He snaps, and angry orange flames spring to life from his fingertips.

“Solomon!” You cry, panic flooding your thoughts. Your eyes search your messy desk for a rag, an apron, _anything_ to smother the fire. But… Solomon’s expression isn’t a pained one. He regards you gently as the fire licks at his fingers.

“Sorry,” he snaps again, and just as quick as they had appeared, the flames go out. “I don't mean to scare you.”

You gape at him. “Then what the _fuck_ was that!?”

Solomon grimaces before plopping into the folding chair opposite you. "Listen, (Y/N). There’s a lot of crazy stuff in this world. Stuff you really shouldn't know about.”

He sighs, glancing over his shoulder. “But I don't think you have a choice anymore. Can you give me, like, five _uninterrupted_ minutes to talk? No matter how crazy I sound?”

You blink, your nervous fingers clasping and unclasping in your lap. From outside your office door, you hear one of your espresso machines hiss— apparently the so-called demon investor liked coffee.

“Five minutes,” you finally agree weakly. “Go.”


	2. Chapter 2

Solomon’s five minute exposé extends to ten, then fifteen minutes. It’s partially your fault, though, because despite his plea to speak without being interrupted, you can’t help but tack a question onto each of his sentences.

“Luke is an _angel?_ … I tried to fire an _angel?”_

“Angel _in training._ Big difference,” Solomon speaks casually, as if he were describing the weather instead of the existence of celestial beings. “He’s been assigned to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what?” You ask. You didn't really consider yourself to be someone in need of protecting. It's not like you were leading an organized crime syndicate in your free time.

Solomon chews his lip, his expression unreadable.

“Have you ever noticed that the café’s clientele is a little… weird,” he avoids your question altogether, to your great displeasure.

“I guess so,” you mumble into your lap. Sure, the café saw its fair share of odd ducks. You’d never really given it a thought, though. Caffeine withdrawal was a universal affliction.

“That’s because not everyone that comes here… is human,” Solomon continues. “All sorts of supernatural beings walk through those doors. Ghosts, vampires, angels—,” he glances over his shoulder yet again, “— the occasional demon.”

A dozen new questions pop into your head. However, before you can ask what sort of coffee could possibly satiate a vampire, Solomon speaks again.

“I’m a sorcerer, which means I'm human, but I can use magic.”

You gape at him. “Like, _magic_ magic? With wands and spells?”

“Spells, yes,” Solomon cracks a tiny smile. “Wands are a little last-century.”

“Makes sense,” you say.

 _That makes absolutely no sense,_ you think. 

“You, on the other hand, are what we call a _Beacon_ _,”_ Solomon speaks slowly, carefully, as if he were hand-picking each of his words. “You can’t use magic, but your presence intensifies the power of magic around you. You're one of the reasons why this café has so many, ah, _unique_ regulars. They're drawn to you.”

“That… sounds way lamer than being a sorcerer,” you pout. So much for saving on electricity by heating milk in the palm of your hand.

Solomon looks as though he has more to say, but a loud _BANG!_ in the dining room effectively ends your conversation. You hear the telltale hiss of your espresso machine activating— perhaps the demon was helping himself?

“We're out of time,” Solomon stands, his tone changing into something more serious. “Listen, (Y/N). Demons have to obey a set of ancient laws. Since you invited him here, you’re the only one that can kick him out.”

“And what if he refuses to go?”

“He probably won’t,” Solomon places a hand on the doorknob. “Demons don't like hard work. Just tune his voice out as much as possible. And do _not_ agree to any deal he might offer you.”

* * *

The walk from your office to the front counter feels unnaturally long. You use that time to sort through your thoughts and questions, filing them carefully away for further contemplation. When the two of you finally reach the register, Solomon stops, his arms crossed dangerously across his chest. You run a shaky hand through your hair before stepping out from behind him.

The face that awaits you is… nothing like what you expected. There are no fangs, no pointed horns. The demon’s eyes watch you from behind a pair of orange-lensed sunglasses, and his silvery hair sweeps lazily across his forehead. He looks, for lack of a better word, _human._

“Hello, (Y/N),” his voice is laced with gold and honey. “Name’s Mammon. I take it that your friend here just finished giving you the ol’ _Demons 101.”_

Solomon takes a step back, his gaze fixed on the demon— Mammon.

 _Demons have to obey a set of ancient laws,_ his words cut through your jumbled thoughts. _You’re the only one that can kick him out._

You open your mouth to speak. Before you can, your tongue glues itself to the inside of your teeth, and your lips snap shut, as if they were being pinched. Cold panic blooms in your chest, and you try (but fail) to glance back at Solomon.

“What do you say we talk things over, yeah?” Mammon soothes. He gestures towards the cluster of empty tables in the dining room. “Just the two of us. _Alone.”_

He shifts his gaze over your shoulder, and you hear Solomon let out a garbled cry. Footsteps fill your ears as you strain against the invisible force holding you in place.

“Remem—,” Solomon chokes from somewhere behind you. He's cut off by the sound of your office door slamming shut.

“That’s better,” Mammon looks slightly bemused as he offers you a hand. His nails are perfectly oval and opulent white. “C’mon now. Let’s talk cash.”

* * *

The first thing you notice upon sitting down at the cramped table with Mammon is his scent. He smells _intoxicating_ — like cinnamon and espresso and freshly baked bread. Your tense muscles begin to relax as you breathe deeply, unable to resist.

The _second_ thing you notice is his absolute lack of demon-y features. His legs, which you had half-expected to end in cloven hooves, look normal and human, and you see nary a forked tail nor leathery wing.

“So,” Mammon starts, his teeth clicking together. “I'll skip the formal introduction, seeing as Mr. Sorcerer over there spoiled my secret.”

Despite the alluring scent, you keep your lips pressed tightly together, not daring to speak. Mammon pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead, peering curiously at your face. You catch a glimpse of his blue eyes, tinged with shifting gold and silver.

“Already made your mind up about me, huh,” he muses, to which you give the smallest of nods. “How about this— you humor me for a minute, let me give you my no-obligation pitch, and then I’ll leave. _Promise.”_

He smiles at you, but this time, it’s different— almost gentle. A warm sensation trickles down your back, like stepping into a pleasantly hot shower.

 _He won’t hurt me._ The words broadcast loudly in your head, as if they were planted there by someone else…

“Okay,” you feel yourself say. From somewhere behind you, there’s a loud _whump,_ like something heavy hitting a wall. Mammon seems to notice, too, because he begins to move a little faster, reaching into his leather jacket and procuring a thick stack of papers. He sets them down in front of you and, with a flourish of his long fingers, materializes a pen.

“Most of this is just boring legal junk,” he starts nonchalantly. “Lemme just paraphrase it for you. Basically, in exchange for a small percentage of your lifetime, I’ll front this place enough money to stay open through the summer.”

“My… my _lifetime?”_

“Sales. I said your lifetime _sales._ Man, you’re kinda out if it, aren’t you?” Mammon pushes the pen into your hand with a wink. “We should hurry this up and get you home to rest.”

Rest. Rest sounds nice. You look down at the contract, only to see that it’s written in odd glyphs, some of which seem to morph and change before your very eyes.

“Do we have a deal?” Mammon all but purrs in your ear. It’s soothing— so much so that you feel yourself leaning into it.

A deal…

_Do not agree to any deal he might offer you._

Solomon’s warning seems to slice through your muddled thoughts, causing you to jolt upwards. The pen falls from your grip and onto the floor with a dramatic _clack._

“N-no,” you finally find your voice. “No deal.”

Mammon leans back in his chair, his friendly smile twisting into something more akin to a grimace.

“Alright, fine,” he groans. “I really didn’t wanna do this, but…”

He snaps, and your vision goes black.

Then, _color._

Vivid blues and reds swirl shapelessly before your eyes, as if you were sitting far too close to a TV. Your breakfast churns in you stomach as the colors come together to form a coherent picture.

It’s Café Ambrosia, its double doors thrown open to the sweet summer air. A line of customers trails from the register, cheerful and eager. Solomon and Luke and a few new employees flit around the café's tiny kitchen, filling orders left and right. Their faces shine vibrantly, and their friendly smiles and clever quips envelop the space in a warm, inviting aura.

“Ah—,” a noise escapes your lips, and you reach out, as if you could snatch the vision out of the air. The pen flies into your hand yet again.

“We can make this a reality, easy peasy,” you hear Mammon’s voice again, although you can’t see him. “All you have to do is sign the contract. It’s right in front of— ah, a little to the left— _there_ ya go. Even just a scribble will do.”

_BRRRING!_

The sound of the café’s door chime shatters the image into pieces, causing it to dissipate as quickly as it had arrived.

“(Y/N)! Wha— _what do you think you're doing to (Y/N)!?”_

It’s Luke. He’s at your side in an instant, followed by Solomon, who bursts out of the back office and crosses the length of the café in an impossibly small amount of time.

“Son of a— _seriously!?”_ Mammon cries, his frustration palpable. “You guys have it all wrong! I’m… I'm _helping!”_

“Leave, demon,” Solomon’s voice is unnaturally loud, as if he were speaking into a megaphone. Tongues of flame erupt from his open palms. Mammon reels away from the heat, his glare shifting from Solomon, to Luke, to you.

“Quite the entourage you've got here,” he growls through his teeth. “What's so special about you, hmm?”

“Leave!” Solomon repeats. Luke points to the door, and it flies open. 

“Okay, _okay._ I’m going, sheesh,” Mammon edges his way around the table, but leans down to whisper in your ear. “You have my number, if you change your mind.”

The scent of cinnamon bread fills your lungs once more, and you fall forward.

* * *

“... now that they know, it’ll be harder to hide…”

“... getting stronger. I could feel it from miles away…”

“Urgh,” a groggy moan slips through your lips as you ease your eyes open. The harsh light of the uncovered light bulb in your office greets you, but only for a moment, as it’s quickly blocked out by two worried faces.

“(Y/N), you’re awake,” Luke sighs, his eyes red-ringed and watery. He’d obviously been crying again.

“Wha— what happened?” Your mouth seems to move in slow motion. “The café… is the café okay?”

“Everything’s fine, (Y/N),” Solomon soothes. “You’ve been out for a few hours. I put a sign out front that says we’re closed for some, ah, _employee team-building.”_

You sit up, wincing. Your office chair swivels underneath you, and Luke reaches out to steady it.

“I’m sure you have a few questions,” Solomon continues. “And we probably owe you a few explanations.”

“(Y/N), I’m so _sorry,”_ the apology explodes out of Luke, as does a fresh bout of tears. “I’m the worst guardian _ever._ I bet Simeon’ll be here any moment to clip my wings and—”

“Luke, hush,” Solomon orders sharply, putting an end to Luke’s blubbering. “Nobody's going to clip your wings. Look, (Y/N) didn't even get hurt.”

“Speak for yourself,” you mutter, pressing a palm into your pounding head. “Luke, uh. I'm sorry I tried to fire you. I didn't know—”

“Don't apologize, please,” Luke interrupts, waving his hands frantically. “At least now you know why I tried so hard to stay. If you fired me, I probably would have failed my assignment.”

He sniffles. “Not that it matters now. I'm obviously terrible at protecting you.”

“That reminds me,” you start, turning to Solomon. “You didn't answer my question earlier. About what exactly I'm being protected from?”

“All sorts of things,” Luke pipes up before Solomon can respond. “Beacons get targeted all the time by supernatural beings looking to strengthen their powers. Demons and magic-users are _especially_ bad about it.”

“Of course, that doesn't mean _all_ demons and magic-users are evil. Right, Luke?” Solomon interjects with a cough. You swear that you see a few sparks fly from his mouth.

Luke scowls. “Sorcerers are fine, I guess. But most demons suck.”

“You get along fine with Asmo.”

“That’s because _Asmodeus_ can’t tell a Beacon from a banshee. He’s too preoccupied with—”

“Wait,” you hold up a finger, as if to press _pause_ on the conversation. “Are you telling me that Mo, as in, here-all-the-time-Mo, is _also_ a demon?”

“Er, yeah,” Solomon's voice is suddenly sheepish. “He is. But he’s not your average demon. Asmodeus is sort of a ‘patron saint’ of his sin, which is lust.”

“Saint, _ha,”_ Luke huffs, earning an elbow in the ribs.

“Bad choice of words, but you get the idea,” Solomon continues. “Anyways. Asmo would never hurt you. He _can’t.”_

As he speaks, he pushes up the sleeve of his neat button-down shirt. Luke makes a disgusted noise as he reveals at least a dozen dark, circular tattoos decorating his forearm. Foreign letters, vaguely familiar, spiral within each of them.

“That… those are the symbols that Mammon’s contract was written with,” you realize out loud.

“Right. It’s the demonic language,” Solomon affirms. “When you make a pact with a demon, they signify it by branding you with their seal.”

Pact? Seal? You watch Solomon’s face as you think through every interaction you’d watched him have with Mo— _Asmodeus_ _._ They had always been very friendly to each other, their conversations filled with banter and, occasionally, a little flirting.

“Wait,” you narrow your eyes. “Are you telling me you have some sort of… _agreement?_ With Mo? Even though you _just_ told me to never deal with a demon?”

“I— yes. I do,” Solomon points to a mark just below the crook of his elbow. It’s considerably larger and more extravagant than the others.

“But pacts aren’t the same as deals,” he continues, rolling his shirtsleeve back down. “A deal with a demon is pretty one-sided, while a pact is more of a truce. You can also take a demon’s _oath,_ but that’s… well. All you really need to know is that dealing with demons is a tricky business— one that you’re better off staying away from.”

Luke nods fervently, looking much more relaxed now that Solomon's marks were covered up again.

“Noted,” you mumble, feeling shell-shocked. “Thanks for being honest with me, I guess. And… I'm sorry for getting us all into trouble. I should’ve known a no-strings-attached internet loan was too good to be true.”

“You know, now that you’re in on the secret, you can just cut my pay entirely,” Luke says softly. “Since I don’t need the money.”

You manage to flash him a weak smile. “That’s a good start, but we’ll need a lot more to stay open. Since we’re all here, we could have a quick brainstorming session?”

You reach for your computer mouse, but you’re knocked back into your chair by a sudden shock of pain. Your head throbs, blurring your vision.

“I have a better idea,” Solomon stands and offers you a hand. “Let’s call it for tonight. We’re only an hour away from closing time, anyways. Come on, (Y/N), I’ll walk you home.”

* * *

The pink sunset is a far too cheerful way to end a not-so-cheerful day. You trod slowly along the sidewalk, Solomon dutifully keeping pace at your side. He glances in your direction every few steps, as if he expected you to collapse onto the pavement.

“I’m just shocked you’re so calm about everything,” is his explanation, after you confront him for looking nervously at you for the umpteenth time. “To be honest, Luke and I were fully prepared to wipe your memory if you reacted poorly to all this.”

“That's kind of uncool,” you frown, delivering a solid kick to a pebble in your path. It _ticks_ along the concrete in front of you. 

“You’re right,” an uncharacteristic blush rises in Solomon’s cheeks as he kicks the same pebble. It arcs far too high into the air before disappearing out of sight. “It would have been super shitty. I’m glad we didn’t have to do it.”

The rest of your walk is spent in uncomfortable silence. By the time you reach the corner of 5th and Cherry, you’re thankful for a reason to part ways with Solomon.

“(Y/N), one more thing,” he says after you bid him goodnight. “Please, _please_ don’t try to summon Mammon again. I know he may not seem it, but he’s dangerous.”

“But—,” you start, eager to call out his hypocrisy, but Solomon shakes his head.

“I’m serious. If you contact him again, I may have to wipe your memory after all,” his tone is deadly serious. “For your own good.”

He gives you a look, and you’re reminded of the wild energy that had sprung to life in his palms just hours before. It makes you shudder.

“I— okay. I won’t,” you whisper.

* * *

As soon as you arrive home, you delete Mammon's number from your phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, everyone stops being jerks eventually


	3. Chapter 3

The weeks that follow your discovery of the supernatural word are, in comparison, painfully dull. Each passing day brings fewer and fewer customers to Café Ambrosia, the gaps between them sometimes stretching out for an hour or more. Luke, in a desperate attempt to remain useful, fills his shifts with odd jobs. He shuffles shelves around to dust underneath them and scrubs the grout between the bathroom tiles, smiling the whole time.

Solomon tries to look busy, too, but he’s a little less toilsome than Luke. Sometimes, on particularly slow afternoons, he opts to slouch against the front counter, questionable reading material in hand.

It's during one of these afternoons— a miserably hot Friday— that you decide something has to change.

“Al- _right,”_ you say, dumping handfuls of scrap paper onto the dining room's largest table. “Time to brainstorm. We’ve _got_ to come up with a way to get some business.”

Luke’s head appears from around the corner, grungy cleaning rag in hand, and Solomon looks up from _Non-Lethal Poisons for All Occasions._ A few heartbeats later, they're seating on either side of you, pencils hand.

“What about an advertisement campaign?” Luke suggests first, his nose wrinkled with thought. “Billboards, flyers… hey, I saw some people spinning signs downtown the other week! I bet I could learn how to do that!”

“Problem is, car traffic along this road is _way_ down, too,” Solomon muses, twirling his pencil between his fingers. “Although, I’m sure the three people that drive by everyday would love to watch you drop a sign on your head.”

Luke sticks his tongue out, and Solomon lets out a snicker. You, too, feel the corners of your mouth tug into a smile, despite your best effort to stay focused.

The next hour provides you with lots of ideas— some good, most pitifully bad. Before you can start discussing which social media platform would be best to advertise on, though, the doorbell chimes. 

“Solomon, my dear!” you hear Mo— _Asmodeus_ — before you see him. Solomon throws a pensive glance at you before returning to his station at the register.

“Ugh,” Luke stands as well, his expression suddenly dark. “I’m going on my break.”

He slips out of the back door without another word, leaving you to collect your notes. 

“It smells sort of weird in here today,” Asmodeus comments as Solomon rings him up. “Like… pennies? And…”

He gives the air a tentative sniff, and his eyes drift around the dining room before landing on you. A quizzical look flashes across his face as he looks you up and down. You try your best to look busy as you shuffle the chairs around the table back into place.

“Hey, Sol,” Asmodeus turns back to Solomon, his tone unreadable, but definitely different than before. “Do you get a break this afternoon? I think you and I need to have a little… _chitty-chat.”_

Solomon hands him his usual whipped cream-topped atrocity. “It’s alright, Asmo. (Y/N) knows everything.”

You can't think of anything else to say, so you just give Asmodeus an awkward wave. The confusion seem to drain from his face in an instant, replaced instead with utter glee. He practically flies across the dining room to you, his drink sloshing dangerously in its cup.

“I _knew_ it,” he squeals, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. You can’t help but reel back as his floral perfume fills your nose. “It’s been _far_ too long since I’ve felt a full-strength Beacon.”

He lets out a slow, sensual sigh and relinquishes you before continuing.

“Asmodeus, Avatar of Lust and thirty-second seal of Solomon, at your service,” he bows his head ever so slightly, his strawberry blonde hair falling into his eyes. “You can just call me _Asmo,_ though. Enough of this silly _Mo_ business.”

“Nice to, um, _formally_ meet you,” you’re unsure if you, too, should bow.

“Oh, there’s no need to _formally_ do anything, my dear,” Asmodeus winks. “In fact, I’m all for skipping the niceties and getting right down to business. How would you like to be treated to the best date of your life?”

“Lay off, Asmo,” Solomon calls playfully, pushing his way back into the dining room. “(Y/N)’s already had one demon jumping down their neck recently.”

A concerned look washes over his face as soon as the words leave his mouth, as if he realized he let something slip a moment too late. Asmodeus turns back to you, his lips pursed.

“What’s this?” He prompts you.

“I— yeah,” you swallow, unsure of how much you should say. “A demon was in here a few weeks ago. He offered to loan me money so that I could keep the café open, but he wanted me to sign a contract…”

Asmo _tuts._ He sips his coffee as he regards you with curious pink eyes. “Well, that just won’t do. We can’t let anything happen to our new little Beacon, can we?”

He closes the gap between you with one long stride, stopping mere inches away. Again, the smell of flowers fills your nose. It's overwhelming, but not in an unpleasant way. It seems to block all other thoughts out of your head except _Asmodeus, Asmodeus…_

“Tell me, what was this demon’s name?” The very same whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear with delicate fingers. You notice that his nails are colored, too— alternating shades of fuschia pink and aqua blue. “I could teach him a lesson for you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Asmo—,” Solomon begins, but you cut him off.

“His name was Mammon.”

Silence.

Then, two things happen simultaneously.

First, the drink that Asmodeus had been idly sipping falls from his grip and splatters across the white tile. Solomon snaps his fingers, and it dissapears into this air, as if it were being sucked into an invisible straw.

Then, Asmodeus himself lets out a great, baying laugh— one that seems to shake the very walls around you.

 _“Mammon!”_ He repeats, incredulous. “Silver hair, about yea-tall, _Mammon!?”_

"That's the one," you say, your jaw suddenly rigid. The cold fear that you had felt during Mammon's visit begins to again trickle down your neck, and the tiny voice of reason in your head urges you to flee.

“Sorry, sorry. I just _knew_ I recognized that metallic stench,” Asmodeus takes a shuddering breath, wiping a mirthful tear off his cheek. “Mammon is my brother.”

“B- _brother?”_ You stammer, wondering how much more convoluted your situation could get.

“Yes. Of sorts,” Asmodeus waves a flippant hand in the air. “Anyways, it’s not important. You have nothing to worry about, my love. He's a _pushover.”_

“Could've fooled me,” Solomon quips, scowling. You nod, remembering how quickly Mammon had incapacitated Solomon, how easily he had goaded you into bending to his will.

“Trust me, he is,” Asmodeus doubles down. “All you have to do is butter him up a little. Y'know, a compliment here, an alluring glance there. Greed is born of desire, you know.”

He flutters his eyelashes at you, and time seems to slow. Everything around you blurs out of focus— everything _except_ Asmodeus. Your heart skips a beat as you stare at him, an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his porcelain skin clouding your mind.

“Anyways,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to his effect. “I’ll have a word with dear old Mammon. _Can’t_ have him terrorizing my favorite little coffee spot.”

He gives your shoulder a reaffirming squeeze. The world around you refocuses just in time for you to watch the hem of his pink shirt disappear out the front door.

* * *

“So there’s Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, and the twins Beelzebub and Belphegor?” You count demons on your fingers as you and Solomon walk home. "I think I'm missing a few."

“You forgot Lucifer,” Solomon adds. “He’s the oldest, so he sort of governs over the others.”

You turn their names over in your head. Solomon had spent much of the afternoon explaining the story of the seven demon princes to you, to Luke’s great chagrin. Apparently, Asmodeus and his brothers had actually started out as _angels,_ and only became demons after losing in a war against their celestial counterparts.

“Right, Lucifer,” your thoughts return to the present. “There _was_ an eighth at some point, right? But she died. Or… whatever demons do.”

“She died,” Solomon nods grimly. A chill runs down your spine.

“Seems strange that demons can die.”

“Well, they don’t go down easily,” Solomon’s tone is cryptic. “Especially the really powerful ones. You have to use a holy weapon, or trick one into breaking an oath.”

 _An oath._ You recall your panicked tête-à-tête with Solomon a few weeks ago.

_A deal with a demon is pretty one-sided, while a pact is more of a truce. You can also take a demon’s oath, but that’s… well. All you really need to know is that dealing with demons is a tricky business— one that you’re better off staying away from._

“You know what else is strange,” you continue, opting to shelve the conversation about oaths for another day. “The fact that _two_ out of only _seven_ demon princes have found their way to Café Ambrosia. Like, what are the odds?”

“Ah-ah,” Solomon chides, waggling a finger at you. “You’re forgetting that demons follow their own set of rules. Asmodeus and Mammon may be able to be in many places at once. Either that, or they can travel between places very quickly.”

“Like, teleportation?” You frown. “Can you teleport, too?”

Solomon smiles, but does not answer.

* * *

You run up the stairs of your apartment building two at a time, your thoughts swimming. Once inside, you retrieve an old notebook from underneath your bed and flip to a clean page.

> ** WHAT I KNOW **
> 
> _Solomon = sorcerer_
> 
>   * _Controls elements (fire, electricity)_
>   * _Makes things disappear (spilled coffee)_
>   * _Wipes memories_
>   * _Teleports (?)_
> 

> 
> _Luke = angel (in training)_
> 
>   * _Assigned to protect me_
>   * _Some elemental control_
>   * _Boss named Simeon (?)_
> 

> 
> _Me = Beacon_
> 
>   * _Strengthens other people’s magical power_
>   * _No power of my own_
>   * _Kind of lame TBH_
> 

> 
> _Asmodeus, Mammon = demons_
> 
>   * _2 of 7 demon princes representing cardinal sins_
>     * _Asmo = lust_
>     * _Mammon = greed_
>     * _Lucifer = ??? (oldest)_
>     * _Leviathan = ???_
>     * _Satan = ???_
>     * _~~Beelzi~~ ~~Beeyelz~~ Beelzebub = ???_
>     * _Belphegor = ???_
> 

> 
> _Agreements with demons = contract - > pact -> oath _
> 
>   * _Contracts are one-sided, usually in favor of the demon_
>   * _Pacts are “truces” between a demon and someone else (Solomon and Asmo have a pact)_
>   * _Oaths are the strongest type of agreement_
> 


You sit back in your kitchen chair, hoping to admire your handiwork. Instead, the sight of it just frustrates you. There were still too many unknowns, too many question marks. Despite several interactions with the demons, as well as Solomon and Luke’s efforts to fill in the gaps in your knowledge, you still feel totally overwhelmed. 

With a huff, you shuffle the notebook closed. Maybe a hot bath would help. At the very least, it would soothe the ache currently twinging between your shoulders.

The deep bathtub fills slowly, giving you time to peel your work clothes off and lay your pajamas out. You wrap yourself in a towel as you rummage through your bathroom cabinets, looking for that bottle of bath oil you had bought a few months ago—

_D-ding._

The sound of your doorbell echoes through your apartment, drawing a heavy sigh from your lips. You tuck your towel tighter as you approach the front door and peer through the tiny peephole.

Staring back at you is a blue eye, mixed with shifting tones of silver and gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mammon at your door, what will he do? https://imgur.com/a/3DP7lmp


	4. Chapter 4

“I can hear you in there, (Y/N).”

It’s _definitely_ Mammon. Despite only meeting several times, his casual drawl is unmistakable. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs as you take several steps back.

“G-go away!” You stammer, your eyes flickering to the locked deadbolt. Solomon _had_ mentioned something about demons needing to be invited into homes, right? _Right?_

“Can we talk? It’ll only take a sec,” comes Mammon's voice again. The doorknob shakes violently as he tests it, but it holds.

“No, nope. Absolutely _not.”_ You continue to walk backwards, away from Mammon _,_ until your back brushes up against the door to your bathroom. In one swift movement, you wrench it open, slip into relative safety, and turn the single lock.

After a few slow, steadying breaths, you chance a look at yourself in the mirror. You look… well, the word _disheveled_ comes to mind. Tufts of your hair stick in odd directions, and the skin of your neck is flushed and blotchy. You scowl, and your reflection scowls back at you, not at all intimidating.

The ache in your fingers releases as you let your towel fall to the ground. The bathwater, not yet cool, elicits a quiet hiss from you as you lower yourself into it. Your eyes fall shut as your lungs fill with steamy, scented air, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your shoulders seem to loosen.

… The same couldn't be said about your _mind,_ though. Despite your best efforts to relax, thoughts still race through your brain at top speed.

Why was Mammon at your door, anyways? Did Asmo _actually_ convince him to apologize? And, if so, were you right to still refuse him entry? What if he had come bearing a revised contract— one that could actually help you?

You sink deeper into the water, all the way up to your nose, and your mind wanders back to Café Ambrosia. Although several other problems had arisen in the past few weeks (namely, the demon knocking at your door) the café's failing finances still hung over you like an ominous cloud. 

The minutes tick by as you stew, and before you know it, the bathwater chills. You get ready slowly, purposefully, taking the time to smooth orange-blossom scented lotion over your heated skin. Your fluffy bathrobe envelopes your shoulders like a cloud, and you run your fingers along the sleeve as you unlock the door and push it open—

“Hey.”

It's Mammon, slouched in one of your dining room chairs, looking both out of place and right at home. “I broke in. Sorry.”

“Y-you can’t be here,” you try to sound confident as you tighten the sash around your waist, ensuring that everything worth covering was covered. “I thought— Solomon told me— you _can’t_ be here!”

Mammon laughs, and the sound ricochets in the small space.

“Yeah, that Solomon,” he huffs. “For a guy wheelin’ and dealin’ with so many demons, he sure doesn’t know jack about us.”

Mammon’s glance drifts to your bathrobe. You cross your arms across your chest, still feeling exposed.

“Anyways,” he clears his throat. Was he… _embarrassed?_ “I can see you’re busy, so I’ll be headin’ out. I just wanted to drop these off.”

He gestures to your kitchen table, and for the first time you notice the bouquet of roses sitting atop it. They're brilliantly black and housed in an elegant crystal vase, against which rests an official-looking envelope.

“Asmo said I needed to apologize,” Mammon continues. He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the laminate floor. “So… there ya go.”

 _Some apology,_ you think, unable to stop yourself from raising an eyebrow. Lucky for you, Mammon doesn't seem to notice.

“And I revised my original contract,” he continues. “It’s mutually beneficial now. At least, more so than it was. Just take a look.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, this time due to excitement, not fear. You make a mental note to treat Asmodeus to the sugariest concoction you can come up with during his next visit.

“Thanks, Mammon,” you make sure to soften you tone. “Really. I appreciate you doing this for us… for _me.”_

Mammon jumps to his feet, his back rigid. A deep red flush fills his cheeks— he's _definitely_ embarrassed now. 

“S’nothing,” he mutters into his shoulder. “I, uh, need to go. But think about it, okay?”

He shuffles past you sheepishly on his way to your front door. Before he opens it, though, he pauses to turn back to you.

“One more thing,” he holds up a finger. “That contract is null and void if I find out you’re dealin’ with one of my brothers.”

“Why?” You can't help but ask. Mammon lets out an annoyed _tch._

“‘Cuz I’m not good at sharing.”

* * *

> _I, (Y/N), being of sound mind and body, do hereby agree to a voluntary partnership with the demon MAMMON, AVATAR of GREED. I agree to the following terms and restrictions._
> 
> _WHEREAS, the demon MAMMON, AVATAR of GREED shall provide assistance resulting in the financial success of one CAFÉ AMBROSIA._
> 
> _WHEREAS, (Y/N) shall agree to provide MAMMON, AVATAR of GREED with coffee at no charge through the remainder of his lifetime._
> 
> _WHEREAS, if this contract is breached by either party, that party shall forfeit their soul OR soul equivalent._
> 
> ____________________________
> 
> _(Y/N)_

* * *

The elegant script no longer shimmers as it had before. You scour the contract from beginning to end, searching for a catch— fine print words, perhaps, or a clause written in invisible ink. However, after at least an hour of reading the same few sentences, you come up empty-handed.

“Asmo, you beautiful _sonofa,”_ you say aloud as you refold the parchment. A giddy happiness floods your chest, and you allow yourself to feel really, truly _hopeful_ for the first time in weeks.

* * *

After a sleepless night, you return to Café Ambrosia with the contract folded safely in your pocket. Deep down, you _know_ you should let Solomon look over it before you sign. Even so, you find yourself dancing around him, avoiding his curious gaze, making excuse after excuse not to talk to him. His threat to wipe your memory still stung like a fresh wound, and although you doubted he would actually _do_ it (after all, Mammon sought _you_ out) it was still scary to think about.

Finally, though, Solomon catches on.

“At the risk of _really_ not liking the answer,” he starts from somewhere behind you, making you jump. “I’ve gotta ask— what’s got you acting so funny today?”

You hesitate, if only for a moment, before retrieving the contract from your pocket. The sight of it makes Solomon visibly deflate.

“Don’t tell me that’s—”

“Listen,” you interject, adrenaline pumping hot and wet in your veins. “Before you get upset, Mammon came to _me._ A-and I think Asmo _actually_ got to him. I read this a million times last night and I think… I think it’s _good.”_

You offer the contract to Solomon, who takes it with delicate fingers. His gray eyes scan the parchment quickly, from top to bottom, back to front.

“(Y/N),” he says your name slowly, dangerously, and your heart sinks. “Mammon’s condition is free coffee for _his_ lifetime.”

“Right,” you affirm. “That seems reasonable?”

Solomon shakes his head with a grimace. “Just how long do you think a demon can live for?”

Oh.

_Oh._

You let out a heavy sigh. Solomon seems to notice the sudden change in your attitude, because he nods knowingly.

“You see where I’m going? Let’s say you sign this contract, and then in seventy years, you die. What happens then? You can’t make coffee from the grave.”

“I—,” your throat is suddenly too dry for words as your relief hardens into disappointment.

“Since you can’t uphold your side of the contract, Mammon decides to cash your soul in, instead,” Solomon’s tone is sharp. “See what I mean? Dealing with demons is a dangerous business.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you finally manage, the corners of your eyes stinging. “I’m still so new to all this and… I didn’t _know…”_

You look away, ashamed. Solomon exhales, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“No, _shit,_ (Y/N), I’m sorry too,” he soothes. “I didn’t mean to scare you— I _never_ mean to scare you. None of this is your fault.”

His fingers dig into your shoulder. “I should have known Mammon would come back for you. There’s no way someone like _him_ would just walk away from a Beacon like _you.”_

“Are you going to erase my memory now?” The burning question slips through your lips before you can stop it.

Solomon's expression sours. “No. It was out of line for me to even suggest that in the first place.”

His gaze returns to the contract, and he regards it for a moment longer before muttering something inaudible under his breath. With a _crack,_ the parchment ignites. Ribbons of black char flutter to the ground, like the petals of the roses on your kitchen table.

“I’ll go get the broom,” he says with a small, sad smile.

* * *

Asmodeus doesn't visit again until the following week.

“I tried to stay away, but I just _can't,”_ he sings, draping himself across the counter. “Your Beacon smells so _sweet._ It won't be long before the demons start lining up for a whiff.”

“I sure hope not,” you mumble, focusing on the tea kettle in your hands.

“Well, you can hope,” Asmodeus winks. “Say now, a little birdy told me Mammon revised your contract?”

“If by _revised,_ you mean _t_ _ried to get (Y/N) to sign their soul away,_ then yes, he most certainly did,” Solomon cuts in over the hiss of the espresso machine. Asmodeus tips his head back and lets out a frustrated groan.

“I’m not surprised,” his tone is flat, devoid of its usual airiness. “Back to the drawing board it is.”

“I’m starting to think I should forget this contract business altogether,” you think aloud, scrubbing at a spot of tarnish on the kettle. “It’s starting to seem like more trouble than it’s worth.”

Asmodeus regards you gently as you work, and you swear you see a glimmer of concern in his eyes.

“Well, whatever you decide, you’ll need to do it quickly,” he sighs. “I _loathe_ being the bearer of bad news, but I wasn’t kidding about the line of demons. Your scent is _strong.”_

“Is that _really_ a bad thing?” You shrug. “All the demons I've met are decent enough. Sure, Mammon is sort of annoying, but he hasn’t tried to _hurt_ me. And you and I are friends, right?”

Asmodeus swallows. “Right, but—”

“Luke and I will protect the café,” Solomon shoots Asmodeus a slanted glance. “So will you, Asmo. You’re _obligated.”_

“Mmm, _so_ obligated,” Asmodeus repeats. Suddenly, his face lights up. “Wait, that's _it!_ (Y/N), you should make a _pact_ with Mammon!”

“What!?” You exclaim, at the same time that Solomon shouts “Absolutely _not!”_

“Think about it!” Asmodeus jumps off the counter, landing soundlessly. “Mammon’ll get a nice, Beacon-y trophy for his collection, and _you_ —,” he prods in your direction, “— will have earned yourself a very devoted bodyguard.”

“No, no, _no!"_ Luke, who had been sulking in the back of the kitchen, finally breaks his silence. “I’ll fail my assignment for _sure_ if (Y/N) sells their soul to some… some… _devil!”_

“Ah-ah,” Asmodeus waggles a finger. “No need to get your feathers in a bunch. A pact doesn’t _always_ include an exchange of souls. Take our dear Solomon, for example— I can still hear his soul rattling around in there.”

Solomon looks away, pulling absently at the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. You wonder yet again just how many marks decorate his skin.

“Listen, I won’t force you into anything,” Asmodeus turns back to you. “But if you _do_ want to give it a shot, I’d be happy to help. Some of my brothers might get in on it, too.”

He grins, a look you can only describe as _feral_ in his eyes. “They _love_ to watch Mammon squirm.”

* * *

The rest of the day is nothing but a tense blur. Your eyes remain planted on the ground as you go about your business, unwilling to meet the concerned gray of Solomon’s or the scathing blue of Luke’s.

The silence is good for _something,_ though. It gives you time to digest things, to turn your options over in your head. Asmodeus had made a good point— actually, he had made _several_ good points.

Point One: this was no longer just about your empty bank account— it was about your _safety,_ too. Although you hadn't encountered any unsavory supernatural beings yet, apparently they were out there. Plus, both Solomon and Asmo mentioned the growing strength of your Beacon, and how it would be harder to hide as time went on.

Which leads to Point Two: maybe having an all-powerful demonic partner at your side wasn’t such a bad idea. Solomon could resist all he wanted, but the fact remained that he was more deeply entrenched with demons that you would ever be. There _had_ to be benefits to pacts that he wasn't sharing. 

* * *

Your walk home is equally quiet, with Solomon wordlessly keeping pace at your side. Eventually, the Cherry Street intersection swims into view, and you're forced to say something, _anything,_ as you part ways.

“Listen, (Y/N),” Solomon breaks the silence first, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I want you to know that I’ll support whatever you decide to do. If you really think Mammon is our— is _your_ best bet… I’ll follow your lead.”

That wasn't what you expected to hear. “I— wow, Solomon. Thanks.”

Solomon nods, and his cheeks burn red.

“Truth is, I feel really guilty about this whole situation. I sometimes think that if I hadn’t spilled the beans, your Beacon would still be weak enough that Luke and I could hide it on our own.”

His brow furrows. “I promise I’ll keep doing my best to protect the café, and _you,_ but the more I think about it… having Mammon on our side may not be our worst option.”

“He does seem powerful,” you murmur.

“He is,” Solomon admits, almost reluctantly. “And, being the demonic patron of greed, he’s pretty protective of his… um…”

“Belongings?”

“Well,” Solomon laughs nervously. “When you put it like _that…”_

“I'm kidding, Sol,” you laugh, too. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Solomon flashes you a sheepish smile before bidding you goodnight. As he disappears around the corner, an odd feeling of unease grips your stomach. Your glance lingers a second too long on strangers you pass by.

Is that man perhaps a demon in disguise? Or, the tall woman over there— is she perhaps an evil sorcerer, hoping to drain you of whatever power you apparently possess? The streets that had once seemed brimming with opportunities suddenly feel a little less inviting. You jog the rest of the way home, eager for the relative safety of your apartment.

 _Maybe I_ _wouldn’t feel like this if I had a_ demon _at my side,_ the thought barrels its way to the forefront of your mind. You clench your jaw, suddenly determined.

You were going to make a pact with Mammon, whether he liked it or not.


	5. Chapter 5

Operation _Sell Your Soul to a Demon_ has a bit of a bumpy start. Upon arriving home, you realize that you have no way of contacting Mammon, what with his his contract lying in charred pieces at the bottom of Café Ambrosia’s dumpster. 

You make yourself a cup of steaming chamomile tea as the dregs of your confidence fizzle once more. The black roses on your kitchen table, a few days old now, seem to droop along with your mood. You stare at them as you wait for your tea to cool, noticing their rough and uneven stems, as if the person who cut them had done so in a hurry.

 _He probably_ stole _them,_ you realize with a start. _So much for a nice gesture._

A sigh sneaks out from between your lips. Of all the demons you could be trying to form an unbreakable bond with, why did it have to be _this_ one? You sip your tea slowly, wondering whether Solomon would be willing to trade Asmodeus for Mammon once all was said and done.

The thought of Asmodeus gives you an idea. He _had_ offered to help you with this, right? Maybe he could put you in touch with Mammon. You retrieve your phone from your work bag and tap a quick text to Solomon, who provides you with a number.

> **_Solomon (20:21):_ ** _just be careful, okay?_
> 
> **_Solomon (20:21):_ ** _asmo may be on our side, but he’s still a demon_

His warning doesn't sit well with you, but seeing as you don't have any other options, you dial the unfamiliar number. It rings once, twice, three times.

Then, your ear is assaulted with blasting music, as if it were being held right up to a speaker. You flinch away, your head ringing.

 _“Who’s calling!?”_ Asmodeus all but screams into the receiver. His voice is barely audible amidst what you can only describe as the sound of a raucous party. You shout your name back, holding the phone at arms length.

“(Y/N!” He squeals. “You’re gonna do it, then! With Mammon!?”

There’s a rustle of fabric, and an unfamiliar voice.

“That’s _dirty,_ Levi,” Asmodeus says. You can almost _hear_ him roll his eyes. “We’re talking about a pact, _duh.”_

“Yeah, I’m gonna do it,” you say, unsure of whether Asmodeus was still listening. “I was actually calling to see if you could put me in touch with him. You see, his contract—”

“I’ll do you one better,” Asmodeus cuts you off mid-sentence. You notice the background noise quieting ever so slightly, and figure he must be moving somewhere less crowded. “Let’s meet face-to-face. Y’know, discuss our game plan. Say… right now?”

“N- _now!?”_ You glance down at your grungy work clothes, particularly at the coffee stain on your pant leg. “I'm not _decent,_ Asmo!”

“Even better,” Asmodeus sings. “Just hold your breath. And try not to throw up, ‘kay?”

Before you can say another word, he hangs up, leaving you in eerie silence. You sit motionless at your kitchen table, anticipation thick in the air. After the longest twenty seconds of your life, an odd sensation begins to ripple through your body. It starts in your fingertips, and makes its way up your arms and into your chest. Your limbs go weightless, as if you were floating atop a pool of water, and your vision fogs over.

_And try not to throw up, ‘kay?_

You have just enough time to press your lips together as the world around you goes black.

* * *

When your sight returns, you’re no longer in your apartment's kitchen. Instead, you find yourself standing in the middle of a crowded underground nightclub, surrounded by flashing lights and vibrating bass lines.

 _“Oi,_ watch where you’re teleporting!” A man growls as he pushes past you. His entire face is covered in eyes, some of which glare at you menacingly. You try your hardest not to stare as you mumble an apology. Others, some human, some decidedly _not_ human, glance at you curiously as they walk by. You stand frozen in place, unwilling to step into the path of another hostile club-goer. 

“(Y/N!) Over here, love!”

 _Asmo._ His familiar voice gives you an excuse to move, a destination to seek. You trip your way through the throngs of people until to arrive at a pristine silver booth, atop which sits Asmodeus.

Or, more accurately, a different _version_ of Asmodeus. Horns protrude from behind his ears, wickedly sharp and tinged red, and his shoulders are framed by four leathery wings. You stop in your tracks as your mind tries to make sense of his altered appearance. 

“Don’t be afraid, it’s just me!” Asmodeus laughs, presumably at your startled expression. He pats the empty seat next to him. You suck in one final, brave breath before pushing yourself forward. As soon as you sit down, Asmodeus shuffles closer to you, stopping just short of climbing into your lap.

“You said you weren’t decent,” he pouts, lifting a finger to your lips. “And yet, here you are, fully clothed.”

“T-that’s not what I meant by _indecent,”_ you stammer, startled by his sudden closeness. You try to covertly shift away from him, but are stopped by something cold and heavy draping itself across your shoulders. You barely suppress a frightened _eep_ as a blood-red stinger, similar to that of a scorpion, inches its way into view. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Asmodeus whispers in your ear. “I won’t let anything in here hurt you. _Including_ myself… unless that’s something you’re into?”

“N-no thank you!” you squeak. Asmodeus laughs again, and the stinger constricts tighter around you, its razor-sharp tip mere inches away from your throat.

“Asmo! For hell's sake, what are you _doing?”_ An unfamiliar voice shouts. Asmodeus jumps, and the stinger flicks away. You let out a sigh of misplaced relief as two strangers join you in the silver booth. They’re just as thrilling in appearance as Asmodeus, sporting glowing eyes and intricate horns. A serpentine tail trails after one, its end lying somewhere out of sight.

“You’re back early,” Asmodeus sighs, the pink flush disappearing from his cheeks. “(Y/N), meet my brothers. This is Leviathan—,” he points to the one with the tail, “—and that’s Satan.”

“That’s quite the scent,” Satan, the one with ram-like horns, sniffs at the air. He has a severe look to his face, and a somewhat threatening aura. It doesn’t _scare_ you, per say— not like Asmo’s stinger had, but it _does_ make your back go rigid, as if you were sitting in the classroom of a particularly strict teacher.

The other brother, Leviathan, nods in agreement, but says nothing. He looks somewhat bored as he taps at a blue-green cellphone. 

“Isn’t it _delicious,”_ Asmodeus moans, leaning back into the booth. “I haven’t smelled a Beacon so strong in _decades.”_

“You must have demon blood,” Satan peers at you curiously. “Or angel blood, although they usually know better than to interbreed. Tell me, do you know much about your genealogy?”  
  
“I— no,” you stammer, unable to look away from his glare. “Sorry.”

“Save the bookish stuff for later, Satan,” Asmodeus chides. “We’ve got more important matters to attend to. (Y/N) here is in quite the predicament.”

Satan frowns, but the curious edge doesn't leave his expression. “So I’ve heard. It's unlucky that you're dealing with _Mammon,_ of all demons. Nonetheless, I've come up with a plan.”

He preens, as if expecting a round of applause. When he doesn’t get it, he deflates ever so slightly.

“Just get on with it,” Leviathan speaks for the first time, not looking up from his cellphone. Satan shoots him daggers.

 _“Anyways,”_ he brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his ruffled blouse. “Much like the rest of us, our brother Mammon’s greatest strength also happens to be his greatest weakness.”

“He’s _greedy,”_ Asmodeus nods, his strawberry blond curls bouncing playfully around his horns. “To a fault. He can’t stand the thought of someone else having something _he_ wants.”

You blanch. “I don’t think Mammon _wants_ me.”

To your surprise, all three demons laugh.

“Maybe not in the sense that you’re thinking,” Satan explains. “But I’m sure you have his favor. There’s an easy way to check— just reach into your pocket.”

You oblige, and to your surprise, your fingertips brush something cold.

“Coins?” You wonder aloud, spilling the contents of your pocket onto the table. Some of the coins are familiar— a tarnished penny, a shiny Euro. Others— a jet black one, for example— are foreign to you.

“Not bad,” Leviathan, finally taking interest in the conversation, grabs one and pockets it. “Now try again. Mammon owes me money.”

“Wha—”

“Just do it.”

Again you obey, and again you find a handful of mixed coins, this time all of them unfamiliar. The demons exchange a knowing look.

“See?” Satan says. “That’s Mammon’s favor. You’ve probably had it for a while now, actually. I bet he’s been nibbling the hook ever since he felt your Beacon.”

“This’ll be _easy,”_ Asmodeus picks up a gold coin emblazoned with a skull and twirls it into the air.

“How so?” You ask, digging around in your pocket yet again.

“We’ll use Mammon’s greed against him,” Satan explains. “He’ll act rashly to prevent you from, say, forming a pact with another demon. My suggestion is that you invite him to your café under the false pretense of signing his contract. Then, upon his arrival, you and Asmodeus will pretend to be preparing a pact together.”

“You don’t think that’ll make him… mad?”

“Oh, he’ll be super pissed,” Leviathan interjects. His tail twitches mischievously. “But that’s okay. It’s just Mammon.”

“Ah,” you say lamely. Maybe Mammon wasn’t as powerful as Solomon had made him out to be. Surely he’d command a little more respect, if he was. “I… guess that sounds like it could work.”

“It’ll work,” Satan affirms. “It’s _my_ plan. Plus, I know my brother.”

You squirm in your seat, partly due to apprehension, and partly due to the stinger that was once again creeping its way around your shoulders.

“So there’s _no_ chance of this backfiring,” your question comes out as more of a statement.

Asmodeus shrugs. “Probably not.”

 _That’s not exactly reassuring,_ you think to yourself. But it wasn’t like you had any other options.

“Alright,” you whisper, barely audible over the dull thump of the music. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

> **_Asmo (09:06):_** _gooood morning, sunshine! :-)_
> 
> **_Asmo (09:07):_** _mammon’s # should be back in your cell, so get to it. see you later!~_

> **_Solomon (09:12):_** _are you okay, (Y/N)?_
> 
> **_Solomon (09:12):_** _asmo told me he brought you to the demon realm last night. are you hurt?_
> 
> **_Solomon (09:15):_** _Y/N)????_

The buzz of your phone wakes you the following morning. As you rub the sleep out of your eyes, you realize that, _somehow,_ you made it back into your own bed.

> **_You (09:17):_** _hey sol, i’m fine. i’ll tell you about it when i get to work._
> 
> **_You (09:17):_** _don’t be mad at asmo!_

You shower and get ready for your shift in a matter of minutes, stopping only to type out a text to Mammon, whose number had mysteriously returned to your contacts list.

> **_You (09:59):_** hello mammon, it’s (Y/N). i think i’m ready to sign that contract.
> 
> **_You (10:00):_** _can you come by caf_ _é ambrosia later today? maybe around 15:00?_

Mammon’s response arrives almost immediately.

> **_Mammon (10:01):_ ** _fine, but this is the last time_
> 
> **_Mammon (10:01):_ ** _look for me_

His messages remind you of the first time you met. The flickering lights, the menacing look in Solomon’s eyes as Mammon bound his limbs with what you can only assume was demonic magic.

You suck in a nervous breath. This time, things would be different. Asmodeus would be there, for one. And you knew more about Mammon now than you did then— what he was, what made him tic.

A smile creeps its way onto your face as you start your walk to the café. If things got too hairy, you could just try saying something nice to him, or maybe patting him on the head. If his behavior from before was anything to go by, either may cause him to implode.

* * *

Asmodeus is already in his usual spot by the time you arrive at the café. He looks up when you push your way through the door, but doesn’t say anything. This strikes you as odd, until Solomon appears from within the office.

“He’s not allowed to talk to you,” he explains with a scowl. “That is, not until I hear _exactly_ what happened last night. From you.”

Asmodeus sighs, flicking at the straw in his barely-qualifies-as-coffee coffee.

You shrug, slipping your head through your apron. “It was fine, Sol. Promise. Asmo’s gonna help me.”

“He didn’t threaten you? Pressure you?”

You shake your head, choosing to not mention the giant scorpion tale squeezing your shoulders.

 _“See?”_ Asmodeus insists, waving an indignant hand in your direction. “I _told_ you I can control myself. Can I—”

“One more question,” Solomon interrupts, holding up a finger. Asmodeus quiets immediately. “(Y/N), I understand that the plan is for you to form a pact with Mammon. Are you _positive_ that’s what you want?”

His words are heavy, and for good reason. Your hands freeze, abandoning whatever menial task they were doing. 

“Yes,” you say, surprising yourself with your sternness. “I’m positive. I… want to feel _safe._ A nd I want the caf é to survive… and I want _you_ to stop feeling so guilty all the time.”

Solomon inspects you, his grey eyes looking particularly stormy. He lets out a long-suffering sigh before returning to his station at the espresso machine without another word.

“Now can I talk to (Y/N)?” Asmodeus whines. Solomon grunts his approval, and Asmodeus claps.

“Fan- _tastic,”_ he sings. “So, (Y/N), what do you think of my outfit?”

He’s dressed extravagantly, a silken Baroque-print shirt lying mostly open across his chest. His form-fitting pants hug his legs perfectly, and a gold chain dangles haphazardly around his waist. 

“Subtle,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “I like it, Asmo.”

Asmodeus blushes, and you swear the smell of his perfume intensifies.

“I wanted to look my best for our little date,” he says. “So, here’s what I’m picturing. We’ll sit at the far table, over _there_ —,” he gestures to the same one you and Mammon had once sat at, “— with you facing away from the door. That way I’ll be able to give Mammon my most devious look once he gets here.”

“And you’re still not concerned about how mad he’ll be?” You ask again. Asmodeus shakes his head.

“Nah. It’s just Mammon,” he parrots Leviathan’s words from the previous night with a wink.

* * *

The day drags, as many days had lately. Asmodeus settles at his table of choice and busies himself with a multitude of things— painting his nails, scrolling through his phone. When lunch time rolls around, he retrieves a bottle of perfume from his purse and, after a glance around the café, pours it directly into his mouth. 

The only other event of interest occurs when a customer— a stout businesswoman— asks if Solomon can break a large bill for bus fare.

“Here, this one’s on me,” you hop into their conversation, reaching into your pocket. Sure enough, you find the exact amount needed, and hand it over to the thankful woman.

“I really should tell my coworkers about this place,” she muses, making her way to the door. You wave after her, pointedly ignoring the suspicious look on Solomon's face.

* * *

Three minutes before 15:00, you and Asmodeus take your positions. Solomon retreats to the office, but only after telling you to call his name if you change your mind.

“Take my hands,” Asmodeus instructs, his voice tender. His skin is warm and smooth, contrasting sharply with your cold, clammy palms.

“Sorry,” you mutter, noticing the way his nose wrinkles. “I’m nervous.”

“Want me to calm you down?”

“I don’t think anything could calm me down right now. But you can try.”

Asmodeus laughs his wind-chime laugh. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Here.”

He sighs, and his perfumed breath brushing across your cheeks. You immediately feel a sense of calm, similar to the way you feel after a long bath. Your shoulders fall, and you feel the corners of your mouth curve ever so slightly upward.

“Feels good, yeah?” Asmodeus asks. His words are soft, his fingers are soft— _everything_ is soft. “Y’know, if this whole _schtick_ doesn’t work out with Mammon, we could always…”

He drifts off. A hazy mist appears in a halo around your clasped hands.

“Is this…?” You ask. The moment of relaxation ends as soon as it arrives, and your mind is clear once more.

“Mmm, a pact,” Asmodeus hums. “Don’t worry though, I won’t _actually_ do it. Besides, Mammon should be coming through the door in three, two— _ah!_ What a coincidence, dear brother!”

You don’t dare turn around, although you hear the doorbell jingle, followed by a flurry of steps.

“Wha— what the fuck, Asmo,” says Mammon from somewhere behind you. He sounds… angry? No, that’s not right. He sounds _hurt._ Your gut immediately drops.

“What?” Asmodeus plays his part perfectly, his tone one of total obliviousness. “You weren’t planning to do _this,_ right?”

“Well, _no,_ but—”

“So (Y/N) is still up for grabs.”

“That’s not—! Er, I don’t—”

“If you’re done, then,” Asmodeus dismisses Mammon sweetly before turning back to you. “Okay, (Y/N), repeat after me—”

The next sequence of events happens far too fast to be possible.

First, you hear what you can only describe as a _growl_ from somewhere behind you, followed by pounding footsteps. A hand closes around your nape, and you yelp, more out of surprise than fear.

Then, the same floating sensation from the previous night returns to your limbs. Asmodeus lets out a triumphant _hah!_ as you press your lips together.

 _Please don’t let me throw up on him,_ you think a silent prayer as your vision fades out once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the infrequent updates! this is a fun lil project that i work on when i can't get my brain to focus on my other pieces. also, devs, give asmo a tail. he deserves it.


	6. Chapter 6

Your second brush with demonic warp travel is _much_ worse than your first. What had before felt like floating lazily through a pool now feels like being towed through a rowdy ocean tide. Invisible forces yank at your limbs, and your insides churn wildly. 

_I will not throw up,_ you chant in your head. _I will not throw up…_ _Shit_ , _I_ might _throw up._

Just as a wave of nausea threatens to take you under, your vision clears to a vivid blue sky, verdant trees. A tentative peek down at your feet reveals a worn concrete path, bordered on either side by a manicured lawn.

_Solid ground!_ You rejoice, and your stomach quiets, as if it knew you had returned to the safety of your own dimension. 

Or, the  _ relative  _ safety, at least. The hand clutching the back of your neck reminds you of the task you still had to accomplish. You swivel on the spot, coming nose-to-nose with Mammon.

“Wha— why— what was _that,_ (Y/N)!?” He looks somewhat disheveled, as if the hasty warp had taken a toll on him as well.

You open your mouth to retort, but your throat is still dry from your scrape with emesis. Mammon's glower intensifies, his sunglasses slightly askew on his face. All you can manage to do is scowl back.

“Uh, excuse me?” An unfamiliar voice effectively ends your staring match. Several paces away, a woman looks on curiously, her hand clenched around the leash of a fluffy white dog. You notice with a start that your and Mammon’s antics are blocking the entire walking path.

Mammon seems to realize the same thing, because he slings a casual arm around your shoulders and nudges you to the side. He mumbles a quiet _sorry_ to the woman as she continues past, tugging her growling dog alongside her.

“It’s, um, crowded,” you think aloud. That was probably a good thing— more people meant fewer dark corners for Mammon to murder you in, should things turn sour.

“Yeah,” Mammon nods. He guides you back onto the path, his arm still heavy across your shoulders. “C’mon, let’s walk. Looks less suspicious.”

“By less _suspicious,_ do you mean more _human?”_ You try to keep your voice light and friendly. Mammon doesn't respond, instead steering you wordlessly along the path. You’d visited this park before, on several particularly nice days, to read under the canopied trees. Now, picnic blankest sprawl across the shadiest spots, and dozens of people dot the lawn, tossing balls and frisbees, enjoying the clear weather.

It strikes you as somewhat surreal, walking casually in a park while arm-in-arm with a demon. The path, like the rest of the park, is busy, and several times you’re forced to squish yourself into Mammon’s side to avoid colliding with a person walking in the opposite direction. 

“So,” after a few more moments of awkward silence, Mammon starts again. “You ready to explain yourself yet?”

“Mmm, no. Not really,” you shrug, not wanting to accidentally give away the details of your plan.

Mammon sighs, carding his fingers through his hair.

“Didn’t I tell you not to go dealin’ with other demons?” He all but whines in your ear. “I mean, _Asmo?_ You really think _Asmo_ has your best interests at heart?”

“Oh, and  _ you  _ do?” You retort, remembering his shimmering contracts, his misleading promises. 

“That’s… not the point.”

“No, that’s  _ exactly  _ the point,” you stop in your tracks, forcing Mammon to a halt.  _ “You’re  _ the one that tried to trick me into signing my soul away,  _ not  _ Asmo.”

“Well— yeah,” Mammon frowns. “But I apologized.”

“Only because Asmo told you to.”

Mammon opens his mouth, only to snap it closed with a _pop_. He tugs on your shoulders, leading you down a branch in the path. You stop when you come to a bench situated in the shade of an ancient tree.

“Listen,” Mammon says, taking a seat. “I know we got off on the wrong foot. But I have a new proposition for you.”

“What’s the catch this time?” You sit on the opposite end of the bench. “My firstborn child? My life savings?”

Mammon grimaces, and for just one moment you regret speaking harshly to him. After all,  _ you  _ were the one coming to  _ him  _ for help. _You_ were the one trying to fool him into forming an unbreakable pact with you.

“Look, I never claimed to be a good person,” his voice darkens. “It’s on  _ you  _ for assuming that.”

“Excuse me for expecting some basic decency from you.”

“(Y/N), I’m  literally  a demon.”

“So?”

_“So_ I don’t  _ owe  _ you anything,” Mammon’s words are sharp. He spreads his arms along the back of the bench, letting one of his forearms brush against your back.

You cross your own arms across your chest with a huff. He was right, as much as you hated to admit it. It was all too easy to forget who (and _what)_ you were dealing with when you were with him. His behavior towards you was so casual, so  _ human. _

The silence grows heavy between you as people continue to walk past. None of them spare you a second look.

You chance a peek over at Mammon. He has his head tipped back, the sun coloring the tips of his hair gold. If you squint, you can just barely make out a sort of hazy aura— an energy that seems to float around him.

_Maybe this _ _is part of my Beacon power,_ you think. Maybe, to everyone else, Mammon looked undeniably human, and that’s why nobody paid the pair of you any extra attention.

“Form a pact with me,” Mammon’s sudden declaration slices through your thoughts.

“A pact?” You repeat, your pulse quickening.

“Yeah. Like what you were about to do with Asmo. Do that with me, instead.”

_I can't believe it. This_ _ is gonna work,  _ you mentally cheer. And yet _…_ something stops you from agreeing immediately— something small and shameful in the very back of your mind. It's the same something that forced five-year-old you to admit to you mother that you had stolen cookies from the pantry.

“Mammon, I—”

“Look, do you want to or not?” Again, there's an edge to Mammon's words, as if he were preparing to flee at the first sign of rejection. “D-don’t waste my time.”

“No— I want to. But…” you realize, with a shock of horror, that you feel  _ guilty.  _ Guilty for lying, guilty for scheming with Mammon's brothers.

You couldn't do this. You _had_ to come clean. 

“The truth is, the whole thing with Asmo… it was all a set-up. He said I should try to form a pact with you, and that if you saw me about to form one with him…”

Color rushes into your cheeks. You brace yourself, fully prepared for Mammon to storm away, or dissipate into thin air, never to be seen again. 

But he doesn't. Instead, he chuckles, and gives your shoulder a playful squeeze.

“That’s… pretty scummy of you, (Y/N),” he chides, his teeth flashing.

“Touch é ,” you mutter back. “Maybe we’re meant for each other after all.”

_ Thunk. _

_“Ouch!”_ You cry out as something hard pings off the top of your head. It tumbles to the ground, and Mammon lunges after it, returning a moment later with a shiny silver coin. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes, turning the coin over in his hand. “This is—”

“Your favor, right?” You say. “Er, sorry. Satan told me about it.”

Mammon arches an eyebrow. “You’ve met Satan?”

_ Shit.  _ “Um. Asmo introduced us once?”

“Scummy,” Mammon says again. He pockets the silver coin and stands, offering you a hand. “C’mon, let’s do this. Before I change my mind.”

* * *

The setting sun turns the sky a shade of deep purple as you lead the way back to your apartment. Mammon trails dutifully behind you, his footsteps slapping loudly against the concrete.

“So… how does this pact thing work, anyways?” You ask over your shoulder. Would it hurt? Would it leave a mark on your skin, like the ones Solomon bore? Asmodeus had been casual enough about it in the café, so it must not be _dramatic._ Still, though, you can't help but wonder. 

“You’ll see,” Mammon’s clipped response doesn’t exactly soothe your nerves. In fact, as you approach your building, your stomach fills with a fresh bout of panic.

The people you pass on the stairs ignore you, just as the people in the park had. That is, until you reach your own door. As you fiddle with your keys, your neighbor, a  tall man that you had exchanged pleasantries with in the past, appears in his doorway.

“Ah…” his eyes narrow, resting on Mammon. "I knew I smelled somethin’.”

He shuffles to the left, blocking the space between you and your door. Your throat tightens— something was very wrong.

“C-can I help you?” You take a tiny step back. Mammon, on the other hand, steps forward.

“Leave it to a  _ demon  _ to spill the beans,” Neighbor Man ignores you, his eyes trained on Mammon. His facial features fluctuate, sometimes that of a human, other times looking more canine. __ You continue to retreat as Mammon advances, your thoughts drifting to the cellphone in your pocket. If you could just reach it without drawing too much attention to yourself…

…Then again, who would you call? The police? Asmodeus? Your thoughts spin wildly behind your eyes.

“Step aside, pal,” Mammon says lightly, gesturing with one hand.

“This doesn’t concern you,  _ demon,”  _ Neighbor Man spits. “See, I’ve got  _ dibs  _ on the Beacon. Been waiting for them to manifest for nearly a year now.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” all semblances of casualty disappear from Mammon’s voice. “How ‘bout this— you leave, and I'm talking  _ leave,  _ leave, and I’ll pretend like I didn’t see anything.” 

“And if I don’t leave?” Neighbor Man challenges, stepping further into your doorway.

“I don’t think you wanna find out,” is Mammon’s dangerous response. The man lets out a harsh, barking laugh, his face shifting yet again.

“Oh,  _ don’t  _ I?” He sneers. “You demons are all the same, so  _ self-important.  _ Look at you, lookin’ all…  _ human.  _ Where are your horns? Diavolo take ‘em?”

_ That  _ doesn’t sit well with Mammon. His hands ball into fists, and he takes yet another step forward. He looks— well, he looks  _ pissed.  _

“Get outta here,” he orders.  _ “Now.” _

As he utters his last word, the atmosphere in the hallway changes. Neighbor Man’s legs snap together, similar to the way Solomon’s had, before moving autonomously.

“Huh?” He strains against his own body as it leads him away, an anguished look on his face. “How—?”

He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath before letting out a low hiss.

“Greed,” he laughs. “Mammon, right? Last I heard, Lucifer threw you in a glacier. You finally use all that hot air to melt yourself out?”

Mammon doesn’t react, opting instead to wrench your apartment door open. He ushers you inside before slamming it closed, drowning out the volley of insults Neighbor Man was still shouting from outside.

“Stand back,” he warns, and then touches a finger to the door’s lock. It glows white-hot, as if being held over a fire.

“I’m imbuing this with magic,” he murmurs. “To keep scum like that out.”

You watch silently, still shell-shocked. To think that you had spent a year living next to someone that had been watching you, waiting for your power to appear…

Solomon was right— the world really  _ was  _ growing more dangerous by the day.

After a few moments, Mammon steps back, his work complete. The lock glows ever so slightly in the low light, its formerly simple knob now resembling the head of a horned dragon.

“You’re gonna have to be smarter,” he chides, turning to you. “Tougher. Creatures like that’ll suck you dry, if you let ‘em.”

“I— But— _I_ _didn’t know!”_ You hurl back. “How was I supposed to know!?”

Anger clouds your thoughts, heats your veins. Deep down, you know you shouldn’t direct it towards Mammon, but you can’t help yourself. Everything around you was changing, even down to which of your neighbors you could trust.

Mammon jumps, his brow furrowing. “Hey, hey— I’m not sayin’ you were supposed to know. I’m telling you what  _ I  _ know.”

“And that is?”

“That I’ve seen plenty of people like… like  _ you…  _ get torn to shreds. For power.”

He sighs, as if his memories were exhausting to recall. “Anyways. That was a mood killer. You still wanna make that pact?”

He holds a hand out— an invitation. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “Probably. Maybe. Yes.”

* * *

In an effort to get as far away from the incident in the hallway as possible, you lead Mammon to your bedroom. He squeezes into your office chair, his legs sticking out in awkward angles, and you sit cross-legged atop your bed.

“Here,” he takes one of your hands in both of his, similar to the way Asmodeus had. His skin is warm, almost hot, and his pearled nails are just the slightest bit pointed. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, as if it could sense the danger mere inches away.

“Repeat after me,” Mammon continues. “And you better not laugh.”

You nod, sucking in a final, steadying breath.

“I, (Y/N), do hereby agree…”

“I, (Y/N), do hereby agree…”

As soon as the words slip through your lips, a shimmering ribbon of energy materializes. It circles your clasped hands, its glow illuminating the blue of Mammon’s watchful eyes.

“… to voluntarily enter into an unholy pact with the Avatar of Greed, Mammon…”

“… to voluntarily enter into an unholy pact with the Avatar of Greed, Mammon…”

The ribbon tightens, and an intense heat pricks your palm. Mammon’s eyes slide shut, a slight curve to his parted lips.

“… at the price of my unwavering loyalty.”

“… at the price of my…  _ wait.  _ What exactly does my loyalty entail?”

The gold energy dissipates immediately, and Mammon groans. He released your hand, letting his own arms fall limply to his sides. He looks…

_ Blue-balled,  _ you think, with a barely suppressed smirk.

“I don’t want you makin’ pacts with my brothers,” he admits.  _ “Especially  _ not Asmo. Or Lucifer, if you ever meet him.”

He pauses. “I hope you never meet him.”

“But Solomon told me the longer I know about my Beacon, the stronger it’ll get,” you reason. “Shouldn't I be able to keep my options open? Y’know, in case something happens to you?”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me!” Mammon quips back, looking offended. “Did you _see_ what I did to that changeling just now? Besides, I’ve been around since—”

“Okay, whatever,” you interrupt. “What if you’re busy, hmm?”

Mammon rolls his eyes. “As if I’d ever be too busy for you.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

A blush— different from the angry one from earlier— warms your cheeks. Mammon’s eyes widen with panic.

“Not like  _ that!”  _ He pointedly avoids your eyes. “Don't make this awkward, (Y/N)!”

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble.  Obviously  he didn’t mean it like  _ that.  _ What were you thinking? “I’m still not swearing loyalty to you, though.”

Mammon’s nose wrinkles. “Fine, fine. It doesn’t matter, anyways. I’m your first.”

He reaches his hands out again, and you slip one of yours between them. Gradually, the gleaming ribbon returns.

“We  _ do  _ have to come up with a price, though,” Mammon tries to sound casual. “There’s gotta be an exchange. Loyalty, treasure… y’know. The typical fare.”

“Ah,” you say lamely. You glance quickly around your bedroom, trying to think of a ‘treasure’ you were willing to part with. However, the shelves above your desk are bare— you had long since sold off all your trinkets in order to keep the caf é afloat.

_ Not long now,  _ you think to yourself, picturing the image Mammon had shown you during your first meeting. A bustling staff, a line of excited customers…

“How about something physical?” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Mammon, predictably, balks. The color drains from his face in an instant.

“W- _ what?”  _ He sputters. “I—  who do you take me for?  _ Asmo!?” _

You shake your head frantically. “No! No, not like  _ that!  _ I was thinking like… a kiss? Or maybe a high five, if that’s too much?”

Mammon stammers some more, none of his words intelligible. To your great surprise, you feel a rush of emotion towards him— warmth? Fondness, maybe?

_ He’s cute,  _ you finally put a name to it. An almighty demon, flustered by the idea of being physical with you… how could you  _ not  _ find that a bit endearing?

“Alright,” after a few more moments, Mammon manages to compose himself. “I— that’ll work. Let’s try this again.”

“I, (Y/N), do hereby agree…”

“I, (Y/N), do hereby agree…”

“… to voluntarily enter into an unholy pact with the Avatar of Greed, Mammon…”

“… to voluntarily enter into an unholy pact with the Avatar of Greed, Mammon…”

“... at the price of one… kiss?”

You grin. “At the price of one kiss.”

You lean forward, over your clasped hands. Mammon’s grip stiffens as you dip your head down and let your lips barely graze the skin on the back of his palm. As soon as you do, the golden ribbon glows red.

Mammon’s eyes slide shut again, and he whispers a handful of words in a language you don’t recognize. Curving lines of white light illuminate across his skin, his chest, glowing through the thin fabric of his shirt. A heat, like the tip of an open flame, burns in your palm, but you find yourself unable to pull away.

Then, as soon as the pain comes, it’s gone.

_ “Hah!”  _ The sound leaks through your clenched teeth, and your body shakes violently. Mammon loosens his grip on your hand and turns your palm over. Starkly red against your skin is a quarter-sized sigil— a demonic seal.

“It’s done, then,” Mammon says, his voice low and rough. “You’re mine.”


End file.
